


A Life Well-Lived

by Crysania



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Rumbelle Christmas in July
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 06:26:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4424900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crysania/pseuds/Crysania
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Rumbelle Christmas and July to the prompt "Stranger than Fiction AU."  This wasn't a movie I had seen before but I totally fell in love with it along the way. I'm not sure this does the movie or Rumbelle justice, but here it is! I'm sorry if it's awful. I am terrible at movie AUs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Life Well-Lived

Robert Gold didn't believe in fate. He didn't believe in any higher power or that anyone controlled his life. He was the master of his own destiny, as pathetic and lonely as it might be. He was the one who slammed his fist down on his alarm in the morning and grumbled curses at the thing. He was the one who put one foot in front of the other, trudging into the office day after day, month after month, year after year. Some of the faces might have changed, but Robert Gold had held the same position for as long as anyone could remember.

Every single day his alarm went off at 6:02am. It seemed an odd time but once he set it there by accident and he was a creature of habit, so 6:02am it was. He followed the same routine down to the letter. Eat his breakfast of toast and jam. Raspberry mind you, not strawberry. And certainly _never_ grape. Drink his tea. Yorkshire Gold, none of that Lipton nonsense Americans called “tea.” How could they consider it tea anyway? He’d tried it once, when he first came to the country what seemed like a hundred years ago. Dirty water. No wonder Americans didn’t like tea if that was what they thought it was. And be brushed his teeth, counting brush strokes as he did. His mother had always told him, _always_ , that you had to wash your hands for 25 seconds and use at least 50 brush strokes when brushing your teeth. He had learned his lessons well.

Fate had nothing to do with it at all.

Fate was something for those whose schedules varied, who didn’t know exactly what the day would entail.

At exactly 7:05am he left for work, counting the steps (576) to get to the bus stop. The bus, of course, never quite showed up at the same time and that often left him feeling anxious, off somehow.

He arrived at work at 7:48am, even if the bus was early. He would stand outside the business, watching, waiting. He couldn’t be early. He couldn’t be late. Late was no good and he had never _ever_ been late in any of the 12 years he had worked at the IRS.

Yes, Robert Gold was a tax auditor.

And he was damned good at his job too.

Even if it meant that he spent most of his time striking down people’s hopes and dreams, sending them spiraling into financial decay. It was their own fault, after all. And how could he be to blame for those who misfiled their taxes? They held him accountable, of course. And so Robert Gold spent his day ripping people apart and returned home at night to a lonely house on the outskirts of an unassuming little town.

So fate had little to do with Robert Gold’s life. Everything was planned down to the very minute.

Except that day.

It was a Wednesday, just a typical Wednesday. Which really did not look so very much different than a Tuesday or a Thursday. But his watch said it was a Wednesday and the watch was _never_ wrong.

He still didn’t think it was fate when he missed the bus that day. He didn’t even think it was fate when he heard the voice. _A voice_. He wasn’t sure where it came from at first. If it were deep inside his head or outside or _something_. He stopped when he heard it.

_Robert Gold counted each and every brush stroke each and every morning…_

It was a man’s voice. Clear and calm, as if some invisible person were simply standing nearby speaking to him. That was only the start of it. He was certain he wasn’t going crazy but he was equally as certain that he was hearing this voice. A narration for his life. As if every moment he went about was of great importance despite the utter mundanity of it all.

The woman at the stop gave him an odd look when he asked if she heard it too and edged away from him. No one had edged away from Robert Gold for as long as he could remember. Rather, they simply didn’t notice him. He was the sort of person, really, who disappeared into the background. Short, small, unassuming, only his slightly too long hair drawing any attention to him. And then only in his office. On the streets he was just another boring office drone on his way to his boring office drone job.

And fate had nothing to do with any of it.

“You’re late,” one of his coworkers said when he entered the building.

_Robert Gold spared his coworker a glance. He was never late. Of course they would notice._

“The bus was early,” he grumbled as he walked past.

Assignments for the day were handed out early. It was a strange sort of life, with people picking and choosing those they saw that day. Gold had always chosen the harder cases, the ones for the wealthy who were about to fall on hard times, the people whose paperwork was all in order but whose life he was about to tear to shreds. He enjoyed it.

Well, no. That wasn’t quite right. He didn’t _enjoy_ it per se. Robert Gold didn’t really _enjoy_ anything. But he felt satisfied in taking these people down. They’d always looked down on him, saw him as the pathetic poor relation. Abandoned by a father who didn’t love him, a mother who died young, raised by spinster aunts who doted on him as best they could.

“Assignments are all dried up.” Leroy was always there, frown on face. Gold had seen what happened to the people who came in late. Handed the worst sorts. The ones who came with nothing or cried the entire time or worse, came with shoeboxes full of crumpled up receipts and teary-eyed confessions.

_Gold knew that day was going to be the hardest of his 12 years…_

He stared at Leroy. It didn’t _sound_ like his voice. “Did you hear that?”

Leroy’s face screwed up a little. “Just take this.” He held out a file.

“No no… _did you hear that_?”

The other man, only a hair shorter than Gold, but stout and bearded, like the dwarves of an old fantasy novel stared at him for a moment. “Are you ok?”

Gold snarled something unintelligible and grabbed the file from the other man, turning and storming off to his office. He could handle the dregs of society that came to him that day.

Fate be damned.

_Robert Gold had never dealt with the likes of Belle French before, though, and…_

He glanced down at the paper.

Belle French…

_Fate had much in store for…_

“It’s not fate,” he growled at the wall of his office. It wasn’t fate. Fate did not exist and it was certainly _not_ a part of it all when he met the lovely Belle French that day. She was self-employed, owner of a tiny bookshop that he had never even heard of, though it turned out to be right down the street from his office.

She had filed her taxes. Paid her taxes. No, she had paid _part_ of her taxes but had never filed for an extension.

When he had walked into the shop, cluttered and crowded and probably considered homey by those who liked such a thing, he was approached immediately by a woman. Tall. Taller than him at least. Long dark hair, red streaks down each side. Behind her was a woman, long red hair swept to the side, wearing a t-shirt that said “In another life I was a mermaid.” He was dealing with _these sorts_ he realized. The misfits of society.

“Belle French?” he asked and the woman just shook her head, blew a large bubble with the gum she was chewing rather obnoxiously and turned away from him.

As if he weren’t there. Just…turned away.

“I’m with the IRS,” he started to say.

“Belle!” the woman shouted and he found himself putting his hands over his ears. “The tax man’s here!”

 _Robert Gold watched her walk, no_ saunter _off, as if she didn’t have a care in the world._

He bit back a snarl. He would not allow that _voice_ to interfere with his job. It was one thing to have it bother him at home or on the bus. But not here. Not his job.

And then the woman in question was in front of him and he just stopped, the voice fell silent. She was…extraordinary. Gold had never seen a woman like her. He wasn't sure he ever would again. "Miss French," he said and was somewhat chagrined to hear his voice crack on the syllables of her name.

"What can I do for you Mr…"

"Gold," he said automatically. "Robert Gold. I'm with the IRS."

She just smiled that, hands on her hips. "Yes I'm aware of that."

Her voice was softly accented, a lilt that spoke of far off places. Australia, he thought. Just lovely the way that her mouth formed the words and he watched as she pursed those lips waiting for him to respond. "It seems," he finally said and he looked down at his paperwork. _Get your act together, Gold. You can do this. It's not like you haven't audited attractive women before_. It was just that he hadn't ever quite audited someone with eyes that shade of blue and hair with quite that amount of silkiness and an accent he wasn’t sure he could ever forget. He cleared his throat. "It seems that you didn't pay your taxes…"

"I paid my taxes," she said and turned to put the book she was holding on the shelf behind her.

"You…"

"I just didn't pay all my taxes." When she turned back to him she had a smile on her face, the sweetest smile he'd never seen. He reminded himself that he didn’t fall for such shenanigans. She wouldn't be the first pretty face who hadn't bothered with her taxes and hoped he would let her go because he admired her beauty.

He glanced down at the paperwork. "Yes. It appears that you paid approximately…78% of your taxes?" He stopped there. 78%. It was an odd number and seemed almost purposeful.

She bit her lip and grinned. _Grinned_. And turned back to her books, shelving one carefully, then the next. As if she didn’t see the way that look affected him.

_It wasn’t often that Robert Gold noticed a woman…_

“Not now,” he muttered. It didn’t even matter if he sounded like a loon anymore. The voice _had_ to stop. It had been pestering him, following his every move, outlining his every thought and action. And _these_ thoughts…

“Pardon me?” Belle French said and he tried to shake himself off.

 _As she turned back to her book for a moment he could watch the curve of her neck as her hair slid over slender shoulders. He could imagine her in his life, in his bed_ …

“I…” he said. Nothing else would come out.

“Mr. Gold,” she said and he wondered for a moment if she was offended. Could he do something offensive? He wasn’t the sort. “You’re staring at my…”

“Oh,” he said. He didn’t need the final word. Her _tits_. He had been staring at her breasts and he had been caught. Robert Gold. The man everyone in the department was likely sure was asexual. The one who agreed that perhaps he was. It had been a long time, after all, since his fiancée left him for another man and he had gone into his somewhat voluntary celibacy.

How long had it been anyway?

“Miss French,” he managed to get out, the words choked from his oh so dry throat. “It seems I’m…not having a good day. We’ll continue this later.”

“Of course we will,” she said and there was ire there. Ire and offense and just a hint of exasperation. But he said nothing else, simply nodded and pulled together his files, and walked out of her little bookshop.

He wasn’t sure if he _could_ go back.

He might just contemplate paying off that other 22 percent of her taxes and say it came from her. Better that than facing her again. Better than her thinking him some kind of pervert. She’d think him an angel in disguise and go about her merry way.

 _It was at that moment that Robert Gold noticed something odd. His watch. Now, he never really_ noticed _his watch. It was simply there, ticking away, always telling him the exact time of day. It was a faithful companion of sorts and one he relied on._

His watch was blinking on and off, the hands moving in odd ways, the dial flashing. And then it blinked off. Just…blinked off. No lights, no sound. He tapped it once, twice. Nothing. He tapped it a third time and it finally came back up, the electronic hands moving quickly before settling at 12:00. His eyebrows rose as he continued to stare down at it for just a moment. Then he finally glanced up, looking at the others standing nearby, waiting for the bus, waiting to get out of their dull little jobs and back to their dull little homes.

“Does anyone have the time?”

“6:18,” at least four people said.

Later than usual. And the bus was late. Not an unusual phenomenon in and of itself. But that coupled with everything else.

 _Everything else_ of course being the voice.

And Belle French.

And his complete and utter idiocy.

That coupled with everything else made it a strange coincidence. But he shrugged and reached down to adjust his watch to the correct time.

_Such a simple thing, really. Changing the time on one’s watch. Robert Gold did it as easily as breathing air, as watching the sun rise. But little did he know that such a simple thing would lead to his imminent death._

"My…" He paused there. Did he hear that right? His… "My death?" There was nothing. No response. Just a couple people who stepped a little further away from him. "What do you mean?" He tried to reign in the panic. This was not logical at all and if there was one thing he knew, it was logic. He was an IRS agent. He had degrees in finance and accounting. His ex-fiancée had once told him he might has well be Vulcan for all the emotion he expressed.

And yet now it was taking over.

All emotion. No logic.

"Hey buddy," one of the guys near him said and he just stepped away.

"What are you trying to tell me? My death? Why would my watch have anything to do with that?" There was nothing. Dead quiet. No voice. No whisper. Nothing. "Where are you? Hello! Answer me!"

It wasn't until later that night, when he had ridden the bus, keeping it all hidden inside, that it all exploded out of him. He railed at the fates, at this mysterious _something_ who kept narrating his life and now told him he was going to die.

Robert Gold wasn't ready to die.

He simply wasn't.

He wasn't young. But he wasn’t old. He didn't have much to live for, really. Just his little house and his little life and counting the days to retirement. Not that he knew what to do _then_.

His cane struck a lamp. “And then Robert Gold destroyed his lamp.” The words were choked out of him, but no voice came to his head. “And he took his cane to the precious clock he had once found at an antique store and that called to him” He hit it once with his cane. Then once more for each word following. “Destroying. Each. And Every. Bit of it.” It was in pieces by the time he was done, shattered across the floor.

He’d have to pick it up in the morning.

But what did it matter?

He waited for the author to state the truth. Robert Gold was crazy. “I am _not_ crazy!” he shouted. And he realized that was where he needed to start. His sanity. And then his death. One foot in front of the other, one thing at a time, just as he had always done.

* * *

“Wow,” Dr. Archibald Hopper said, crossed his hands over his knee as he leaned forward to look at Gold, who suddenly felt small and odd sitting there on the man’s couch.

He’d never seen a psychiatrist before.

He’d never needed to. Robert Gold was perhaps the most boring, most staid man on earth. Voted “Most Likely to Bore his Date to Death” in high school as some sort of joke had stung. But it was ultimately true. His own fiancée had told him he was boring. Too wrapped up in numbers and math and the weird little antiques that he collected for her to stay interested in him. She had loved him once, he supposed. But then came the pregnancy and her retreat. She had left the week before the wedding, their young son going with her. When she had sued for full custody he hadn’t even fought it.

“Well, Mr. Gold,” Dr. Hopper went on with, bringing Gold’s attention back to him. “I’m afraid that this sounds remarkably like schizophrenia…”

“It’s not,” he said quickly. He didn’t need a diagnosis. He just needed it to stop. “It’s not telling me what to do.”

“Yet you hear a voice.”

“It narrates,” he interrupted with, as if the other man had not spoken. “It tells me what I’ve already done. Like...some sort of author telling the story of my life.”

“An author,” Hopper repeated, still with that slightly cocked head, those pursed lips. Concerned, but not quite emotionally involved. He supposed that was as much a psychiatrist’s lot in life as an IRS agent’s.

“Yes. Exactly. It’s not schizophrenia,” he repeated. Just for good measure.

“Alright then,” Hopper said and took a deep breath. Exhaled. “Then maybe you need to speak to a literature expert.”

Gold leaned forward at that. “Literature?”

“If it’s an author…”

“Right. And it is.” He pointed it out as if it weren’t obvious. Or as if he had to convince someone of that fact. Maybe even himself. There was an author. Narrating the most boring man’s life. And speaking of his death.

As if his death would somehow even matter.

One thing Robert Gold knew was that his life didn’t matter. He was a solitary creature. Even his own son barely spoke to him. It might be years before he realized what had happened to his father. He was likely to simply fade away and maybe, just maybe, one day his boy would wonder why he hadn’t heard from him in several years and might shed a tear or two when he found out he was gone.

“So if it’s an author,” Hopper repeated. “Then I think you need to speak to someone with expertise in that area.” He spoke the words carefully, as if he were afraid that at any moment a switch would flip and Gold would start screaming and need to be dragged off in a straitjacket. Perhaps he should do that. It might be the most interesting thing he had ever done, after all.

And besides, it was hard to die when you’re trapped alone in a room with psychiatrists all around you.

It probably didn’t make for an interesting story, at any rate. Perhaps the author would leave him alone. Or write something better. Make him the evil sorcerer haunting his very own musty castle. Or the knight in shining armor. Though that really was laughable, what with the limp and his slight physique. But if the author could shape his life, then perhaps he could shape it to be better, more interesting, more _something_ …

“Yes,” Gold finally muttered and then looked up at Hopper, whose face was soft with worry. Lines about his frowning mouth. A furrow between his brows. “You still think…”

“Yes.” He looked almost surprised at the words.

“Well,” Gold said as he leveraged himself to his feet, leaning rather heavily on his cane. “I know that’s not true.” And he walked out of the good doctor’s office. He could hear the man calling softly to him, suggesting a follow up appointment. But he simply waved him off with the hand not clutching his cane and made his way back outside.

A literary expert. He knew just where to find him.

* * *

The literary expert had been, well, almost completely pointless. He had dismissed him at first and Gold had been sure he thought he was crazy.

Which was really saying something.

Dr. Jefferson, last name unknown, was often referred to as The Mad Hatter for his obsession with, well, hats, and for the eccentricities that were known to him. His office was kept dark, hats adorning every free space on the walls. Gold had felt both annoyed and anxious in his office.

And ultimately the man was useless.

Except for one tiny thing.

He believed him. Oh, not at first. His first reaction had been to suggest his counselor. Of course the man saw a counselor. He probably saw three. Or maybe five. The more the merrier. Even if they didn’t seem to be doing him much good. But once he told him what the voice was _saying_ , once he said _little did he know_ , Jefferson had perked up, sending him on his way with instructions.

Is the story a comedy or a tragedy?

Gold had snorted at that one. His whole life was neither, really. Nothing funny. Nothing tragic. Until now. He wasn’t quite sure _what_ this story the author was writing about him was going to chalk up to be. Death generally meant tragedy but he had seen plenty of movies billed as dark comedies.

Perhaps that was what his life was about to become.

But once he got on the bus, a rare occurrence this late in the day, he was positive it was a tragedy. Because who should got on just after him but Belle French.

The same Belle French he was auditing.

The very same Belle French that he had… _ogled_ …at her bookshop. The one he couldn’t stop thinking about. It was really too much. And it was even more than too much when he opened his mouth as soon as he saw her. “Miss French.” The words slipped out before he could stop them. She turned toward him, her eyes widened for a moment and then she ducked her head as she walked away. Just like that. Turned. Walked away. As if he simply weren’t there. That should have been his cue to simply sit back and turn away from _her_. Instead he offered her a seat. Which she rather aptly declined.

“There are eleven of them.” Useless. He was more than useless. He wanted to bury his head in his hands and hide until it was time to get off the bus.

Paying that 22 percent of Miss French’s taxes sounded better and better all the time.

But that was the moment that the bus lurched and Belle French, unbalanced from her awkward stance turned away from him very nearly landed in his lap.

Well, she landed in the seat next to him.

Almost like it was fate. If he believed in such a thing.

The author remained strangely silent at this moment. He really expected to hear something from him, especially when his heart leapt strangely (a sensation he could not accurately describe even if he wanted to) or the way he felt parts of himself twitch when she accidentally touched his leg to regain her balance.

“Miss French,” he said again and she bit her lip, gave him _that look_. He wasn’t even sure he could define it, but he knew what it meant. _Stop. Stay away. Don’t say a word._ Which was why, of course, Robert Gold said something. Because he was nothing if not completely obtuse when it came to the opposite sex. Some might call him intelligent, shrewd, but when it came to women he reverted right back to that tongue-tied teenager that was voted the most likely to bore his date. “I owe you an apology.”

Her eyes lit up at the words. Just like that. “You do,” was all she said.

“I do. I should not have…”

“Ogled?”

He nodded. “Right. Yes. I should not have… _ogled_ …you. It was inappropriate.”

“It was,” she confirmed. And yet still there was some sort of mirth lurking behind the words.

A comedy then.

There was silence then. Or at least as close to silence as one could get on a bus. “You have…” His mind frantically searched for anything to say. He had no idea why he wanted to keep up a conversation with her. There was just… _something_ …about her. “Very blue eyes,” he finally managed to get out.

 _Some days Robert Gold felt like he wasn’t the intelligent man he took himself for_.

“Thank you,” he muttered.

“That’s very kind of you,” Belle French responded with. “They’re natural.”

He nodded. Of course they were. “Oh here’s my stop.”

And then he was off the bus without another word.

 _Robert Gold was so caught between embarrassment at the conversation and pride that he had managed something at least a_ little _flirtatious that he didn’t even realize he had gotten off the bus some 27 blocks too early_.

“Shit.”

He was really learning to hate that voice.

* * *

Of course, escaping from Belle French’s presence while on the bus was really only putting off the inevitable. It wasn’t like he didn’t have to track her down again, setting foot in her shabby little bookshop the very next day.

He still had to audit her.

Their interactions were far from over.

“Mr. Gold!” she exclaimed upon his entrance. Her friends stood around her like soldiers waiting to go to war. The tall one, Ruby he gathered from the nametag she was sporting that day, had her arms crossed over her chest and a scowl on her face. The older one, shorter and plumper but no less menacing, leaned toward him.

“I have a crossbow. Don’t try anything.”

Ruby just laughed.

Gold shuddered.

He had no doubt that was the absolute truth.

“Oh Granny,” Belle French said and patted the older woman on the shoulder. “I don’t think Mr. Gold is going to try anything.” When her eyes met his there was some sort of mirth lurking there, as if they shared a joke no one else was privy to. Her smile hit him hard in the gut and left him feeling completely out of his element. “Now Mr. Gold,” she said as she moved closer to him. He liked the way she moved. Sure of herself and yet feminine at the same time, feet encased in heels that brought her nearly to his own entirely unimpressive height. “What can I do for you?” It was accompanied by a smile at least.

He cleared his throat. Once. Twice. He had to fight from doing it another time. "I'll need to see your tax returns from the past few years."

"Of course." And she turned away then. He should have known from the glint in her eye that she had something up her sleeve. He had _never_ been taunted in such a way.

 _In fact, Robert Gold had never been taunted. And he found he loved it_.

He cursed at the voice. And he cursed again when Belle French brought out the box. "What is this?"

She glanced down at them briefly, bit her lower lip, and smiled. "My receipts."

Of course they were.

He took the box from her. What else was he going to do? And she cleared a space on a table above the shop so he could settle down and look through them. It was strange, seeing her so helpful despite her insistence that she wouldn't be paying that extra money no matter what.

It was likely to take _hours_. At least. And so he holed himself up working on it, coming up from air only when he had a question.

"Miss French?" he said as he stepped down into the shop. She was looking up something on the computer, eyes squinting in concentration and he was sure he had never seen anyone quite so beautiful.

Something was clearly wrong with him.

She said nothing for a moment, just smiled, told the patron standing in front of her what she was looking for and where it was.

He cleared his throat.

"Mr. Gold." She didn't even look at him as she spoke.

"You can call me Robert." The words tumbled out of his mouth. He would have taken them back if he could have.

"I'm sure I could." The latter was said with just a touch of humor and the professor's words came back to him. Comedy or tragedy? Comedy, perhaps. At least for now. He highly doubted his life would end up a comedy, especially if…well…if…That didn’t really bear thinking of.

“Ok,” he answered with. “I’ll just…nevermind.” Tongue-tied. He was always so tongue-tied, especially when she pulled all those dark curls away and he could see the curve of her neck, the soft skin of her cheek, and realized he wanted to touch. Wanted to caress. Wanted to do things he could barely remember doing.

He retreated then. Before the voice could start again. Because it was safer. He was _safe_ in his numbers, buried in receipts and tax files. It’s where he always felt safe. And Belle French? She left him unsteady, a little weak at the knees, a little _something_ that he could not explain entirely.

But the feeling didn’t lessen when he was upstairs working. He could hear her down below, could almost imagine her heartbeat, her soft musical laugh, the way she took care of each and every person who came into the shop. She was warm, while he was cold. She was alive and vibrant while he was dark, every emotion deadened.

When he came back down later, everything was still and quiet. He wasn’t even sure what time it was, afraid to even look at his watch for fear the voice would return and taunt him some more. At times it narrated the inner thoughts that he would very much like to push away.

“Cookie?” she asked him almost as soon as she heard the soft thud of his cane on the floor.

“I…”

Her lips turned upward in a small smile. Indulgent. As if she knew exactly what was going on in his mind. “Would you like a cookie, Mr. Gold?”

He blinked once. Twice. “No.” And then he remembered his manners, something that had been lacking recently. “No thank you.”

“Mr. Gold,” she said and he was sure it was a rather sharp rebuke.

“I…” What could he say, really? “I don’t like cookies.” Even he cringed when the words came out of his mouth.

“Really?”

“Honestly.” And he supposed it _was_ honest at least. His father hadn’t been any sort of cook and beyond that, the aunts who ended up raising him didn’t really have time for baking.

“You’ll like these.” He was almost sure there was _something_ there behind her eyes, but he couldn’t define it. Wouldn’t want to, even if he could have tried. If there was something that Robert Gold most certainly was, it was a coward. And faced with blue eyes, those dark curls, that forthright manner, he felt every inch the coward he knew himself to be.

“I don’t think…”

“Oh just _have_ one, Mr. Gold.” She was smiling at least, though he could hear the exasperation behind her lightly accented voice.

He reached out and picked up the cookie. Chocolate. He couldn’t deny liking chocolate. And gooey, still warm from the oven. “Australia?” he finally managed to get out.

“Pardon?”

“I mean…you’re from Australia.”

She nodded. “Came here when I was only seven.” He watched as she took a deep breath. “My mother died. My father wanted out.” She shrugged. “So here I am.” She leaned forward then and he found himself trapped by her gaze. “What’s _your_ story?”

The words were almost seductive, almost…something. “Mine?”

She nodded and he felt him drawn in by eyes that were almost too blue to be real. “Yes. _Yours_. I told you mine. You tell me yours. Isn’t that the way it works?”

“The way what works?” He hated being obtuse, but…

“Oh just eat another cookie.” She tossed another one on his plate and he picked it up, almost honor bound to eat the thing.

“I came here as a young man,” he finally managed to say between bites of cookie. “Found myself at the IRS. And stayed.”

“That’s it?”

He shrugged. “There was a fiancée. Long ago.” He was surprised that bringing up his former fiancée didn’t cause the sharp knife twist in his gut. When had that happened? He couldn’t remember ever accepting her leaving him. And yet here was the proof. Thinking about his ex did nothing at all to his emotional state.

 _Robert Gold was well and truly ready to try another relationship_.

“I am not,” he muttered.

“What?”

He met her eyes, looked away quickly. He wanted to tell the voice to just _shut up_ , leave him alone, _stop_. “Nothing,” he finally said. “I’m the monster that parents warn their children about, Miss French.”

She shook her head and there was a sort of merriment behind her eyes, shining through. “You’re not a monster. A little straight-laced, a little stodgy. But not a monster.”

“I’m not stodgy,” he shot back with. Well, that much was a complete lie. He was _absolutely_ stodgy. And she knew it.

“You’ve been working _all day_ on the receipts I mangled for you and your tie is still knotted as tight as it was this morning.” She laughed. “You’re stodgy alright.”

She had a point, really. “I’m…not. Here.” He reached up and pulled at his tie, loosening it just slightly. She crossed her arms over her chest, raised one eyebrow. “Miss French.”

“You can call me Belle, you know.” One of her hands wandered close to him and touched his arm, ever so briefly. Just that one small touch and he wanted more, wanted her to put that small hand of hers against his cheek, run it down his chest, run her fingers through his hair.

“I’m not sure I can, Miss French.”

She sighed. “You told me to…”

He reached out to grab the cup she had offered him. Milk, of course, to go with the cookies. No proper tea from this one. Her hand reached out too. He didn't even know why. To stop him from picking it up. To take something else. It was almost involuntary he could imagine, but then her fingers brushed his and his hand jerked and the cup tumbled to the ground, spilling milk across his trouser leg and hitting the ground with a loud thud.

And then they were left there in silence.

"Oh," he said and blinked, reaching down for the cup. Belle French reached down at the same time and their heads collided.

She shouted something that he was certain a curse word.

He apologized and managed to snag the cup before anything else untoward happen. And of course. _Of course_ …it was damaged. "I.." he started to say. And then finally, "It's chipped."

She leaned over and took the cup from his hand, shook her head. "It's just a cup."

He took it from her. "I'll replace it."

She shook her head once and removed the cup from his hand. "It's _just a cup_."

He nodded then. He wasn't sure what else to say, really. The mood had been shattered in a way, though he wasn't quite sure how or why. "Right. I should…I probably should be going."

The smile she gave him was indulgent at least. "It's been a long day." And there was a bit of a conspiratorial bent to the words. It was a long day because of _her_. She didn't have to say it. They both knew the truth.

"Yes," was all he could think to say at that moment. Anything else seemed just…wrong somehow. And so he gathered up his briefcase and stood to go.

"You should take the rest of these," she said, the words coming out in a rush. She was up, then, like the whirlwind he had noticed before. Always moving, never settling. The cookies were dumped into a container and the container handed to him before he could even say anything.

"Did you…" How _did_ one ask this anyway? "Did you make these for me?"

Her only answer was to bite her lip and nod, hair falling across her shoulder as she did so. It was a shy gesture…almost. Like one he might make. It endeared her to him all the more, but also set him on edge.

"I can't take them."

"But I…"

"I _can't_ take bribes." The words were out before he could even take them back, shades of the typical Robert Gold. Nasty, corrosive. There was a reason he had no friends, no one close to him at all. Because this was who he truly was.

"That's what you think this is?"

He closed his eyes for a moment. "Miss French…"

"Get out." The words were quiet, firm.

"Miss French…" He didn't know what else he was going to say, really. _Please forgive me. I think you’re beautiful. God this was such a bloody mistake._

“Out,” she said again and stood.

He followed suit. “I’ll buy them,” he started to say. It wouldn’t be a bribe then.

She gave him a look, one of _those_ looks. Head cocked to the side, a little shake of the head, a little furrow of the brow. And then simply grasped both his shoulders, turned him around.

He went willingly of course.

And then he found himself outside, the loud thud of the door and the higher pitched click of the lock turning the only sounds to greet him.

 _Robert Gold knew he had well and truly screwed up_.

And the author’s voice, of course. Snide, a little bit proud. As if he had simply acted the way the author had wanted him to.

“Thank you!” he shouted as he turned to leave. Stupid voice. If only what it said didn’t ring quite so bloody true.

* * *

Jefferson had told him his best course of action was to never ever leave his home. Never go outside. Never even look out the window. Don’t get your mail. Don’t do _anything_.

And he listened.

Bloody fool that he was.

Now his house, his beloved precious house full of antiques he had collected over a lifetime, was half in ruins, the result of a bunch of idiot workers who couldn’t read to save their lives. The wrecking ball had damned near killed him. Death had almost been brought right _to_ him and had he not heard the small crack of noise, had he not stood and moved when he did, he would have been flattened beneath the wrecking ball that destroyed one wall of his house and nearly condemned it to the trash heap.

A close call to be certain and not one that he would have thought much about had the voice not continued to speak to him. Day in, day out, disturbing his sleep and nearly every waking moment, a constant run of narration that it was sometimes hard to think past.

Though at least there had been no more mentions of his death, imminent or otherwise.

Even though it hung over his head every single moment of every single day.

He wasn’t ready to die.

He had been, maybe, some time ago. When his fiancée left him, when she took their son. In those moments he had curled up and felt ready to see the end come. But not now. Not when he had…well, not _much_ to live for. But something.

 _Belle French_.

The professor had told him to find his life, find what made his life _his life_. If he was going to die, and he was sure he was going to, then he should find some meaning to his life. Do those things that he enjoyed.

But what _did_ he enjoy?

Robert Gold didn’t enjoy anything. Except working at the IRS. And he wasn’t even sure he enjoyed _that_. It was a job. It was money. It was _something_. But enjoy? No. He couldn’t remember the last time he had actually enjoyed anything just for the sake of it. Even watching the television or reading brought him little joy.

He had asked Leroy about it. Leroy was…gruff, a tough man with a heart of gold. He had known him as long as he had been working for the IRS and while he wouldn’t say they were _friends_ , Leroy was perhaps the closest he had ever had. The man tolerated him at least. And he tolerated his strange questions about death and adventures.

Leroy would sail the world. That was his answer. Buy a boat, see the world. There was this little nun he fancied ( _a nun!_ ) who he’d convince to go with him and together they’d watch the sun rise over the horizon during his last days on Earth. Laid to rest in his beloved sea.

He never knew that about Leroy. He never knew much about anyone, really, he realized. Because he never cared to.

And so what did _Robert Gold_ want?

That was the ultimate question, wasn’t it?

_Robert Gold remembered once, long ago, that he had dreamed of owning his own little shop. It was the smell of the furniture polish, the precision work that he so delighted in. Full of dark wood, brocade curtains, clocks and curious things. It would be his home away from home._

And he remembered.

And he dreamed. Did he dare?

He had found himself standing outside the boarded up shop on more than one occasion, dreaming, wishing that he had the guts to simply leave his job, buy up the little place, and make it _his_.

And now, he was going to die.

Die without ever realizing his dream. Die as an IRS agent, hated and alone. Die with only the vague memories of a fiancée who hated him in the end, a boy who he barely remembered, a life not worth living.

It had never been a life worth living, had it? The author had made sure of it, leaving him as the middle-aged shell of a man.

But now. Now was the time. Jefferson, mad as a hatter though he might be, was right. Now was the time to grasp the world by the lapels and shout _I am Robert Gold and I will not go quietly!_ The author might have his final say. But this time it would be on _his_ terms.

* * *

_Three weeks. That was all it took to turn Robert Gold’s life around._

“Damn straight,” he muttered to the voice. He didn’t rant at it anymore. He didn’t shout at the heavens. It didn’t even keep him awake at night. It was always there in quiet and reflective moments, easily blocked out.

Three weeks and he could barely even recognize himself.

Well, he would have had more trouble, perhaps, if he didn’t still dress in the same three-piece suit, wear the same fancy Italian shoes. The pay for an IRS agent wasn’t much, but he had standards. He had to keep up appearances. And frankly, he had never had any money to spend anything on, so fancy clothes and the occasional dinner ordered in were about as much as he spent.

But not now.

He was going to die after all.

He had purchased that little shop, just as he always wanted to. Purchase it outright too.

And then he had quit his job, which left Leroy and the rest with their jaws hanging loose. He was the one they had expected to work until he died. And maybe he almost had, really. If he was going to die soon (imminent did, after all, imply…well… _imminent_ ), then he worked almost up to the day of his death. He just had a slight vacation beforehand.

A slight vacation in his very own shop.

He had pulled everything out of the corners of his house, the attic, the basement. His fiancée had once called him a hoarder and a packrat and in some ways that came in handy now. It wasn't that he _hoarded_ exactly. But he likes antiques. Furniture, knick-knacks, even one old cello and several guitars he had collected over the years. Anything that caught his eye at flea markets or antique festivals was fair game to come home with him.

Even _he_ had to admit after he cleared out some things and moved them to his new shop, that the place looked neater. Nicer. Or at least, it would have if it didn’t have a gigantic hole in one wall. That was being repaired at least and the cot he had moved to the back of his new shop would do as a living space for now.

His own space.

His own shop.

Mr. Gold, Pawnbroker and Antiquities Dealer.

It felt right. A strange sort of right that told him he had finally come home. Or at least would have if it weren’t for the nagging feeling that he place was missing _something_.

And it was late one night when he realized exactly what it _was_ that was missing.

Belle French.

His thoughts strayed to her perhaps far more often than they should, considering she was a good 20 years his junior and seemed to float between thinking he was a total jerk and a total creep. But the truth of what he felt was hidden somewhere inside him.

 _He wanted her_.

Wanted her as he had wanted no one else. Thought about her late at night laying on the cot in his new shop. Thought about her in the shower. Thought about when he _almost_ took himself in hand and allowed those pretty fantasies to play out in his mind as he relieved himself of the…problem. Wanted her like he was some randy teenager and not a middle-aged man on the cusp of death.

He stayed away as long as he could. She was no longer his concern. Her file would be turned over to someone else and they would have to finish the audit he had abandoned in his headlong rush toward oblivion.

But still, he wanted her.

And as the days wore on, as he stood at the door to his pawnshop and watched people walk by, as he welcomed them in, enticed them with his wares, he still wanted her.

He couldn’t get her out of his mind.

Her long hair, silky strands of chestnut. His hands itched to be in it, to touch it, to _feel_ it. He wanted to see her eyes as she came undone, wanted to feel her wrapped around him. Robert Gold had never been really _sexual_ before, his experience limited to some rather pathetic fumblings in the backseat of his ex-fiancée’s car.

But this time he _wanted her_. Like he had wanted nothing before in his life.

He stayed away as long as he could. Really he did. Kept himself holed up. But then word must have gotten out. Or maybe she saw the sign and was curious. She seemed the curious sort, always surrounded by books and involved in her patron’s lives. Book people tended to be curious. Gold was not a book person. Well, not really at least. He enjoyed them but couldn’t get lost in them. He read, but felt apart from the stories.

Something told him that Belle French got so involved she lost herself.

That certainly seemed to be the case the day he saw her walking down his street. Storybrooke, Maine was not a large town. Not by any means. But still, there she was, wandering aimlessly down the road, nose buried in the book she was holding. Dangerous, to be sure.

“Miss French,” he called out before he could even stop himself.

_Robert Gold watched as she drew up short, the book pushing away from her, turning almost as if in slow motion. The world was slow, languid, as if they were living underwater._

“Mr. Gold?” She looked confused for a moment, as if this was the last place she expected to see him. But then she looked up, saw the sign. “Mr. Gold’s” she repeated and there was a small smile on her face.

“Would you like to come see the place?” The words came out of his mouth before he could even take them back. Not that he was sure he _wanted_ to, especially not when her small smile turned broader and her eyes had a strange sheen to them.

He’d almost call it happiness. But he could not remember, ever, in his entire fifty plus years of existence, actually making someone _happy_.

“Yes, actually.” She nodded once. “I think I would like that.”

“Excellent,” he said and pressed his hands together, waiting for her to step into what he now thought of his lair. Dark, quiet, the sort of place dragons or monsters _would_ be lurking. But instead she just gave him _that look_ and he realized he was blocking her way and stepped aside.

 _Smooth. Very smooth_.

He stepped back.

She stepped in.

And it was like the whole place lit up. “This is _amazing_ ,” was all she said as she started a slow circuit of the room. It wasn’t large, but it seemed like it took several hours to get around for her. _Seemed_ , of course. In reality it was probably only a handful of minutes. He watched her with a little bit of awe.

“Golden fleece?” she asked as she reached out to gently finger a small blanket laying there.

“That’s what they tell me,” he murmured.

“I think you got fleeced.” That was said with laughter.

“No doubt of it,” he responded with. Quickly. Almost as if he was used to social interaction and…dare he say it?...flirting.

She gave him another of those smiles before continuing her circuit of the room.

She stopped in front of a bow and arrow. A true antique, he assured her. Dating back to the 17th century.

She stopped in front of an old typewriter that he had fixed up a few days back. “The Smith Premiere.” He couldn’t stop the pride that leaked into his voice. “The first typewriter from L.C. Smith, perhaps better known as one half of Smith-Corona.” She gave a suitable _ah_ and nodded. “It’s an upstrike machine.”

“A…”

“The keys strike the paper from below. Utterly useless design, really. You couldn’t see what you typed as you worked.”

“Right.” A small laugh and a gentle touch to the machine before she turned back to him. “What happened to your tax job?”

“Done.” He stepped a little closer to her.

Her brow furrowed slightly. “Why?”

Why. Such a simple question. _Why_. He had answered it any number of times, generally with a rude or sarcastic quip, generally with _Because you did this to yourself_. After all, people wailing such a word at an auditor were in trouble. “Because I didn’t want to do it anymore.”

_Because I’m going to die._

She shook her head. “You sure seemed to enjoy your job when you first came to my shop.”

He shrugged.

 _Because I want you_.

“Miss French, can I be perfectly honest with you?” _Could_ he be?

“Sure.” Her brow was still furrowed.

“Because…” he paused there. Did he dare tell her? He was going to die anyway, so why did it matter? Why did _anything_ matter? “Because I want you.”

Her eyebrows rose.

At least they weren’t furrowed anymore.

“Pardon?” was all she managed to get out, almost choking on the words.

“I want you.” It was easier that time at least. The words came out not quite so slurred, not quite so frantic. Better enunciated at least. He wanted her. And now she knew.

“You _want_ me?” He wasn’t sure if there was guile behind the words or just complete disbelief. Maybe a bit of horror. There would certainly be horror.

“In no uncertain terms.”

She blinked once. Twice. “Wow.”

“Miss French, _please_.” He wasn’t begging. Not for that at least. He wouldn’t beg. Not that he was above it, exactly. But he had gone this many years (how many again? ten? twenty? he couldn’t even remember now) without such things.

“Why don’t…” she paused there and his mind frantically filled in the space after the second word trailed off. _Why don’t you bugger off…why don’t you take a leap off a tall building_ …all said with beautifully rounded words and an accent he couldn’t get out of his mind. But then she spoke again. “Why don’t you make me some tea?”

“Tea?”

“Yes. You _are_ Scottish, aren’t you?” There was a teasing note to her voice.

“I am…yes…” _Was she flirting with him?_ “Do you want to come back and have a cup of tea?” He almost sounded normal.

“I think I would enjoy that very much.” And she smiled.

At Robert Gold.

He’d say there was a God, but he wasn’t actually sure he believed that. He supposed he’d find out an answer to that question soon enough.

The back area of his shop was cramped, the table crowded with things he had begun working on but had yet to finish, clocks and mechanical toys he had pulled out of his rather extensive storage in his home. His house was sparser now, but no less magnificent for the antiques that were still there. But his shop… _his shop_ …that was the heart of it all now.

“Well, that’s convenient,” he heard her say and turned around to find her staring at the cot.

“I needed a place to sleep.” The words came out quick, maybe a little defensive. It wasn’t like he had been _planning_ to seduce her. Even if every night he went to bed with images of her in his head, even if the thoughts plagued him like nothing had before.

Her voice was soft when she spoke next. “You don’t have a place to live?”

He gave her a rueful smile. “I have one, yes. Well, I did. It’s being repaired.”

“Ah…”

“Wrecking ball,” he offered.

“What?”

“It was an accident.”

She cocked her head slightly to the side. “A wrecking ball _accidentally_ destroyed your home?”

“Sounds ridiculous when you put it that way, doesn’t it?”

She was smiling at least. “Well…”

“They had the wrong address. Damn near killed me.” He muttered the last, wondering if he should inform her of his impending doom, if she would think he was as crazy as a loon if he told her about the author.

Best not.

The teapot chose that moment to start its merry whistling and he breathed a sigh of relief. Saved by the bell…or the whistle at least. “Tea?”

“Of course.” Her response was still sunny and he was thankful he hadn’t scared her off. Not yet at least. He would, he knew. He always did. Just part of his “unique charm” as Leroy often told him.

He poured tea for both of them and found she liked hers almost the same as he did his, just a dash of milk, no sugar. Coffee, she told him, had to be weighted down with milk and sugar just to be palatable, but a good cup of tea needed little more than a bit of milk to bring out the proper flavor. They both preferred good strong English brands. Yorkshire Gold this time. One of his old standbys.

While she sipped slowly at hers, he settled on the bench on the opposite side of the table. Tinkering was what he did best when nervous and so he picked up the clock he had been working on, fingers automatically going to the springs, twisting and turning them as he placed them in their proper place.

He didn’t even hear her get up, but then he felt her slide in next to him. Close, almost too close. He could feel the heat from her thigh as she scooted in against his side and leaned in toward the clock. His fingers fumbled for a moment and he took in a deep breath to settle himself as he felt the butterflies take to wing inside him.

“What are you doing?” Her voice was soft and fanned out across his cheek.

He shivered. “It’s broken, you see…” He tilted the clock toward her, shifted it so she could see its inner workings. “And so no one wanted it.”

“Broken and unwanted, that’s sad.” He tried very hard not to think about how it was a rather apt comparison to his own life.

“Yes, well…that’s what I’m here for.” He gave her a crooked grin and returned to the task at hand.

All was silent for a moment until Belle leaned in again. “How did you learn to do this?”

He placed a particularly difficult part of the mechanism and then turned to look at her. “I guess the way things always interested me.” He shrugged. “I’ve been tinkering with things as long as I can remember.”

“And so the shop…”

“A dream, I guess.” Reality for now, for whatever time he had left. Maybe he would leave the whole thing to her. It would be fitting somehow.

“Why now?”

“Pardon?”

“Why give up your job _now_ and open this shop?” She sounded honestly curious. He’d give her that much. Intrigued.

Another shrug. “I just wanted to.” As if it were really that simple. As if hanging over his head weren’t the words _imminent death_.

“Hmmm.”

“Hmmm?”

She was watching him, her eyes slightly narrowed, her head cocked just that little bit to the side. And then he saw her nod, as if she had made up her mind to do _something_.

And that something?

Before he could even blink or comprehend what was going on, Belle French leaned over, really quite suddenly, grabbed him by the back of the neck and hauled his mouth directly to hers. He didn’t respond right away. He couldn’t, really. But then her hands were in his hair and her mouth had moved just slightly and there was so much wetness and heat that he couldn’t _not_ respond.

One arm wrapped around her and pulled her closer and she responded, standing and shifting and landing in his lap, her thighs wrapped around his, and still with those hands in his hair. And when he let out a slight gasp, she took control, nibbling at his lower lip as the kiss deepened.

When they broke apart, both breathing heavily, she managed to murmur. “I want you too.”

And then there could be no words. He took over the kiss, arms holding her tight to him as she shifted and brought herself more in contact with his groin. He could feel himself growing hard. He couldn’t remember the last time, outside of a few choice dreams he had had about her in the past few weeks.

His hands reached down and cupped her behind, pulled her tight against him.

“The cot?” she managed to ask against his lips.

“Oh God, yes.” And he wasn’t even sure how he got those words out. They were three more than he thought he could manage at that moment.

They tumbled onto the cot in a tangle of limbs. It was small, but they were also small people and with Belle French on top of him, they really did fit quite nicely.

She grabbed his hand and pressed it against one of her breasts, allowing him to feel the softness there, allowing him to knead just slightly. “Miss French,” he murmured.

“I think we’re beyond that,” was her breathy answer.

“Belle…” He nearly growled the word.

And then clothes were flying off. Her shirt, his. He tried to apologize for his appearance but she was having none of that, shutting up his protest with a sharp bite to his neck that had him groaning and thrusting up at her.

"Eager?"

He tried to laugh that off. "It's been awhile," he admitted.

She bit her lip and offered a small smile. "Me too."

It was all the permission he needed to continue on. She wouldn't judge. He knew that. Knew that he could fumble and make mistakes and she wouldn't laugh at him. And she didn't. Not when he reached around and tried to undo her bra and she had to do it herself. Not even when they knocked heads as they twisted around, putting him on top, almost falling off the cot in the process.

They laughed then. But it was a good kind of laughter.

He stopped laughing when she reached down and cupped him through his trousers. And he definitely stopped laughing when she shimmied out of the skirt she was wearing, panties following suit. In fact, his mouth went dry at the sight. "You're perfect."

"Hardly," she answered and leaned up to kiss him. "But thank you."

"May I?" he asked.

She nodded and he let his hand skim down her pale belly, feeling it quiver just slightly underneath before cupping her. Her legs separated almost automatically and one of his fingers dipped down, touching her, feeling the wet heat of her. _Wet_. _For him_. He wished thoughts of his ex-fiancée didn't slip in there, but he well remembered her requiring lubricant, that he never quite _did it_ for her. And she made him aware of that. He was all fumbling hands and pointy elbows and the sex had been quite horrible. He was still amazed they'd made a child.

But this.

This was something else.

She was _wet_ and when he touched her there, she made a noise in the back of her throat. He slid his fingers around her clit, never quite touching it, enjoying the wet feel of her, enjoying the sounds she made, the way her legs opened wider as he touched her. It was glorious and even more so when he felt her tense between him, when she shouted _Don't stop_ , and then shook with her release.

"Oh my _God_ ," she whispered and reached around his neck to pull him back for a kiss. He couldn't say anything else. He was so in awe of the way she clung to him, so very in awe that she had come undone so easily.

He almost didn't feel her reach for the belt on his pants, almost didn't feel her push them down, but he sure felt it when her hand closed around him. He let out a gasp, the feel of her hot little hand touching him in a place he never thought someone would touch him again.

"Condom?" she asked.

"Shit," he muttered.

"I'm on the pill."

"I'm clean." He didn't even know why he said it. Reassurance, he supposed, but it should have been obvious considering his lack of experience and the long lonely years.

She nodded and pulled him down for another kiss, then reached down to line them up.

And then he sank into her.

And she was so wonderfully hot and wet and _perfection_. He whispered her name as he kissed her temples, as he felt himself enveloped in her. He whispered her name as she wrapped her arms around him and urged him to move. He whispered her name as he felt her tightening around him, as her legs wrapped around his as she told him _harder_ , _faster_. He did as she bade.

"I'm not going to last," he murmured.

"Then don't," she whispered back.

And he didn't. He shouted her name as her legs tightened around him and his hands came under her ass to haul her tight against him. He came them, her name a hoarse cry as he buried his face in her shoulder to muffle his shouts.

As they came down from it, he held her tight, head still buried in her neck, tasting the sweat there as her breathing began to slow.

"Wow," he managed to get out.

"Yeah," was all she said.

He moved so he was off her and as he settled into the corner of the cot and Belle turned and wrapped an arm around him, sighed against his chest, he knew.

 _Robert Gold knew he had fallen in love with her. And as Belle French gave one more soft sigh and slipped into sleep, he knew that she, too, was falling in love with him_.

* * *

His visit to Jefferson was an elated one. It was a comedy. Maybe a dark one, with discussions of his death. But a comedy nonetheless. He was in love, something that scared him to the depth of his being, but left him elated at the same time. There was this freedom inside him and yet a cold feeling of dread deep in the pit of his stomach.

He wasn't known for being able to keep a relationship going, after all. Wasn’t even known for having _friendships_. And yet there was something about Belle French. Some indefinable _something_ that made him believe, for just one moment, that it could work out.

Which was why, of course, he finally found out that the author was real.

He had been speaking to Jefferson and the flamboyant man had given him a tip of his hat and told him to be on his way then, that there was nothing more to say about it. The TV had been on, just a murmur in the background as it was the last time he was here. He didn't pay any attention to it then. And he didn't now either.

Until he heard something.

"Wait…turn that up."

"Pardon?" Jefferson asked, stopping mid-sentence.

"The TV. Where's the remote? Turn that _up_." He growled the last at him and Jefferson, with a little gasp and his hand to his heart, did as he wished.

"What is…"

"That's him." The voice. Right there on the screen of the TV. He squinted at it.

"That's…"

"The author. The voice I've been hearing in my head. That’s _him_." He had wondered for all this time if the psychiatrist he had seen had been correct, that the voice really was just a product of his fractured brain. But it wasn't. Because there he was.

"That's not possible."

"It's him."

"That's Isaac Heller," Jefferson said, as if the name would have meaning to him. At his confused look, Jefferson waved a hand in the air and continued. "That interview is ten years old. The guy is a recluse, hasn't written anything in years."

"Well, he's writing now," Gold muttered. "I need to find him." He turned to Jefferson. "Where can I find him?"

The other man shrugged. "Recluse?"

"Yes yes I know. But _his voice_ is the one I hear in my head every single day." He was quiet. Sometimes. Like right now. And hearing the voice come from outside his head was disconcerting to say the least. Sometimes he almost believed the psychiatrist. But now he had proof. "I need to find him," he repeated and turned toward the door.

"Gold, wait," Jefferson said, reaching out a hand to touch him. "There's something you should know about Isaac Heller."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Every one of his books ends in tragedy. He kills the main character in horribly tragic ways. It's his…trademark…of sorts." Gold watched him for a moment longer and then with a bit of a growl, flung himself out of his office.

He would find the man.

And he would have him write a better ending for him. The one where he and Belle French live happily ever after.

Or at least the one where he _lives_.

* * *

Isaac Heller was easier to track down than he thought he would be. He was a recluse, certainly. No address. No phone number. Nothing listed. But there was one place that even recluses couldn't hide from.

"This is illegal," Leroy had pointed out as he and Gold pored through their archives, looking for any current information on the man.

"I don't care," Gold muttered, pushing through another file.

"This isn't like you…"

"Of course it's not," he snarled at him.

"Then what are you doing? Is this about that woman?"

Gold grabbed another file and snarled something intelligible at the other man as he continued his search.

It bore fruit about a half hour later when he turned up a tax file from only three years ago. He was willing to go to the ends of the earth to find this author, but it appears he didn't have to. The man lived on the outskirts of Storybrooke. And perhaps more importantly, he had an office in the heart of the city. A small overlooked building in the middle of town. He'd never even heard of the man or his books until now/

"No," he finally managed to say. "It's about _this man_." And then he left. There was nothing else to say, nothing he could actually tell the other man. He had an author to confront and a life to reclaim.

* * *

"I need to see Isaac Heller." He had stormed the place, throwing the doors wide and walking through in with as much dignity as he could muster.

"He's not seeing anyone." The woman who spoke seemed prim, proper. Goldie, her name was, and she had dark skin and even darker eyes. She was watching him warily as he approached and then reached out to try to stop him when he simply walked past her.

"He'll want to see me," he said over his shoulder and opened the doors to the man's office.

"Goldie!" The other man was instantly on his feet. "I told you I'm not to be disturbed!"

The woman was rushing after them, hand held to her heart. "Mr. Heller, I…"

"I'm Robert Gold," Gold interrupted with.

Everyone stopped talking and stopped moving. "You're…Come again?"

"I'm Robert Gold."

"That's not possible. Robert Gold is fictional." The man looked a bit like a deer caught in the headlights.

"He's not. I'm him. 'Little did he know that such a simple thing would lead to his imminent death.' That's me." He waited for the other man to say something, to understand, to _help_. Instead he simply collapsed into a chair.

"You're real."

Gold nodded. Waited.

"Real," he said again.

"Yes." It was like talking to a brick wall. Well, mostly, at least.

"And I killed you. Well…I'm going to kill you. I just finished the rough draft of the final chapter, you see."

"So there's time to change it?" There had to be. Time to start his life anew. Time to stop this _imminent death_ nonsense.

"Well, yes. I suppose." The man narrowed his eyes on Gold.

"Then change it." It was a demand, not a request. He had to change it. _He had to_.

"Oh gosh, I wish I could. But you see, I just wrote the _perfect_ ending." He was a smarmy bastard, this one.

"The perfect ending that involves my _death_ ," he snarled at him, one hand gripping his cane hard. If he had to beat the man, he would. If he had to do something violent and terrible to get him to just let him _live_ , he would. Anything.

"Well, yes." Isaac walked closer to him, reaching out a hand to touch his shoulder. Gold flinched back and the other man offered him a rueful grin. "But it's _glorious_."

"I' m sure it is, but I still don't want to die." Desperately so. _Desperately_.

He watched as Isaac took a deep breath, turned, and pulled out what he could only assume was the manuscript to the book. He backed up at the sight, felt himself choke up a bit.

"Read it," Isaac said.

"I couldn't…"

"Just… _read it_. If you don't think it's a masterpiece, I'll change it." He held it out to him.

Gold took it reluctantly. But he took it. "You'll change it."

"Sure."

And then Gold was out the door, with his death held in his hand.

* * *

It took him two weeks to read it. The voice was silent in his head during that time and he almost felt a little bereft at the loss.

The manuscript taunted him. Tortured him. It sat in the backroom by his cot and every time Belle French came over, he hid it. And Belle came over a lot. Regularly these days. They made love on the cot, fell asleep together.

Yet he couldn't tell her.

And the manuscript continued to taunt him. He pulled it out at odd hours and contemplated reading it. He'd get through the first page before closing it quickly and shoving it back into the drawer. But still it was there and he had to know.

How many people got to know their own ending, after all?

And so late one night he could no longer resist. He had to know. How would it all end? When?

It took him all night and when he got to the final page, there were tears in his eyes and his cheeks were damp. It _was_ glorious. An ending befitting a hero. His life would have meaning. His death would have meaning.

He took several deep breaths, feeling the air constrict around him.

And then he picked up the phone.

"Isaac? Finish the story."

When he hung up, he felt strangely euphoric. He had things to do. And a very important goodbye to make.

* * *

 

They spent their last night wrapped up together at his newly repaired house. She didn't know it, but the house was going to be hers. It was already paid for. And he wanted her to have it. She admired so much of it, from the salmon color to the antiques to the beautiful kitchen and library. Her apartment was small and cramped and soon she would have the run of his place, making it her own.

He hoped she'd keep at least a little of _him_ in the place.

Maybe his precious antique chair. Maybe the bed they spent that last night in. Maybe the set of china that came from his grandmother so long ago. Something, anything. She had fallen in love with him. Just for a little while.

It was perhaps the best thing that ever happened to him. One final bit of living that he never thought he'd get.

When the sun rose, flooding the room with light, he leaned over and kissed her on the temple. He watched the way the sun lit up the edges of her hair, the way it danced across her eyelashes and turned the irises of her eyes even lighter. "Robert?" Her voice was sleep addled and he smiled.

"I have to leave." He tried not to choke on the words.

"Ok," she murmured and rolled over. "I'll see you tonight?"

"Sure thing," he whispered. And then…"I love you, Belle."

She smiled. "I love you too."

And then he was out the door, letting it shut softly behind him. His preparations for the day were careful, calm. It was the end and he could face it. It would be a good death. It would _mean_ something. Belle French could sob over his broken body, but feel _good_ about his end.

He didn't know why, but that was important to him.

So he got ready, carefully and confidently, and took the 576 steps to the bus stop.

And then took a breath.

And waited.

The child was there, just as the author said he would be. Small, maybe only five years old or so, riding his bike without a care in the world. He knew what would happen but there was a part of him that hoped otherwise.

But no.

The child took a turn, hit the curb and flew off it. His bike hit the pavement hard but he stayed up and offered a little fist pump. He was proud. And in a moment, if the bus had its way, he'd be hit, crushed beneath the wheels.

 _But Robert Gold knew that could not happen and so stepped out onto the street, reaching the child before the bus could_.

Everything slowed down around him. The screams of the others at the bus stop stretched out into infinity. The child's shout as he pushed him out of the way echoed hard in his ears.

And then he turned.

And the bus was there.

And the last thing he knew was the pain as it collided heavily with him, flinging his small and insignificant body several feet from the place of impact.

Everything went dark

* * *

There was a beeping noise. That was what he noticed first. Followed by pain. And then a white light. He tried to crack his eyes open but they felt sealed shut.

And he couldn't move.                                        

He was pretty sure _this_ wasn't what Heaven was.

Heaven was supposed to be clouds and angels and harps.

He finally managed to crack one eye open and a face swam into view. "Are you an angel?" At least, that was what he tried to get out. He was pretty sure with this way his lips felt squished together and how dry his throat felt that they didn't come out quite like that.

"You're at the Storybrooke Hospital."

He recognized that voice. "Belle?" But what was _she_ doing here? She wasn't supposed to be in Heaven.

"Yes," she answered with.

"But you're not dead," he muttered.

She laughed at that. Maybe the words were clearer. "Of course not, silly. Neither are you."

He managed to finally get his eyes open. He couldn't quite focus on her. But she was there. Alive.

 _He_ was alive.

"What happened?"

At that she reached out and touched him. But he couldn't feel it. He managed to glance down, saw the casting which covered most of his body.

"You saved that boy." She sounded proud of him for that.

"I did." Yes, he remembered that, remembered the boy getting away. "But…"

"You were very badly injured." He heard the concern there and closed his eyes for a moment.

"No, no. How am I alive? I was supposed to be _dead._ "

She shook her head. "No I don't think so." She turned away then and picked up something off the table at his side. "This saved your life."

His watch. She was holding his watch. Shattered, but still intact. "How?"

She shook her head. "Apparently a piece of this stopped you from bleeding out."

"I was that close?"

"You were that close."

He would have reached out to take the watch from her but he couldn't. He would have reached out to take her hand, but he couldn’t. "Belle?"

"Yes Robert?"

"This might be the worst time on earth for this, but…will you marry me?"

She gave a small huff of laughter. "Of course." And she dropped a kiss on his cheek. "As soon as you're better."

"Of course," he responded with.

He drifted off to sleep then, content, happy. He had his life. And soon he would have the beautiful Belle French to spend the rest of his life with. He couldn't ask for more.


End file.
